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winebag, whilst her hair flutters in the wind, and
she sings ecstatic songs. No, but the Mænade
that ascends from Bellmann’s steaming bowl is
the Punch’s Anadyomene – she, with the high
heels to the red shoes, with rosettes on her
gown and with fluttering veil and mantilla –
fluttering, far too fluttering! She plucks the
rose of poetry from her breast and sets it in the
ale-can’s spout; clinks with the lid, sings about
the clang of the hunting horn, about breeches
and old shoes and all manner of stuff. Yet we
are sensible that he is a true poet; we see two
human eyes shining, that announce to us the
human heart’s sadness and hope.
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